


All I need is in your arms

by foulrescent



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Kissing, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Smoking, Swearing, TASMANIA - Freeform, bucky wants to run away to tasmania, captain america crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6091816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foulrescent/pseuds/foulrescent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Who would I be to make Captain America extinct? That fucker’s great, but Steve Rogers is. You’re indescribable. I need you, just for a little while. Captain America is War, but you, Stevie, you’re the apples that we nicked from Mrs. O’Donnell. You’re those stinking hot nights that I smoked out of the window, you’re those little coughs that could mean death and you’re me on my knees, my head on your thigh and your hands in my hair.”</p><p>(Steve finds Bucky smoking on the roof of a building or Bucky flicks ash down on him to indicate that he's found Steve)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I need is in your arms

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Jarryd James' 'Give Me Something'.  
> \- All mistakes are my own  
> \- Enjoy :)))

“You find what you’re looking for?”

Steve itches at the grass with his shoed toes. He shrugs, hutching his shoulders when they pull down. “A few leads, but they’re not… they’re not completely up to date. There’s a few files from 1967 that I picked up, but. It’s not what I’m looking for,” he mumbles, kicking a bundle of grass out of the soil, their roots on display. He attempts to push it back into the dirt with his heel. “So, Bulgaria was a bust.”

“So what? We’ll work with the files when I get back, by, let’s see, tomorrow morning. I’ll be back some time tomorrow.”

“How are _you_ going?” Steve remembers to ask. He looks at the trees bounding the facility, but he can only see their outlines. It’s too dark to notice anything else, and he still needs to get used to the moonlight.

“I spoke this guy named Peachy at San Quentin. _Peachy_. Doesn’t it make you think about how nicknames are going downhill? Anyway, so I spoke to Peachy and he gave me some dirt. It’s nice to actually be on top of a case for once, you know?”

He smiles at Sam’s optimism. “ I should’ve come with you.”

“No way, Cap. We wouldn’t want everyone questioning why Captain America was at a prison, would we? Besides, Bulgaria’s supposed to be nice this time of year. I hope you tanned.”

“I don’t think I can,” Steve scratches the bridge of his nose. His skin there has been oddly itchy for a few days. It might be sun burnt, but he can’t tell.

Sam sighs, “You can’t get drunk, you can’t tan. What else _can’t_ you do?”

He flattens the grass more than he fixes it, so he just steps back. “I can’t find—“

“Nope,” Sam pops, “That’s not a flaw, Steve.”

The stench of cigarette smoke suddenly sinks into Steve’s sense. He looks around, there’s no one around, so he steps out onto the grass, flattening each strand a little gentler. He looks up. It's not a flaw, after all. He coughs, “Sam, I think I’ll call you,” ash gets flicked down, falling onto the cement, “I’ll call you later.”

“Don’t forget to feed Sushi for me, Cap.”

“I will,” he promises.

Sam bids goodbye. “Thanks. See you tomorrow, hopefully with,” his pitch gets deeper, like he’s singing, “the shrinking man!” Sam hangs up, the sound of California traffic and the distant pop song on the radio, gone.

Steve gulps and cocks his head further back. There’s a waft of smoke. There’s a glint of metal and a dark shadow of black. A gleaming set of teeth are shaped into a grin and a hand with a little circular orange flame waves at him. Steve huffs a laugh and then sprints to the building, using the windowsills and the curve of the balcony to leap up.

He grabs onto the edge of the roof. His hand lands right next to a chunky combat boot and he hesitates. That heel of that boot can crush his fingers into an unappealing, broken mosaic. The boot doesn’t move. Steve doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. His legs are dangling down, in front of a window that faces the gym. He pushes himself up when he realises that Bucky isn’t going to pull him up.

Bucky’s there, back leant against a beam. Steve settles next to him, setting his legs in the direction of the free space. One of Bucky’s legs are stretched out, the other is bent. His elbow is settled on the point of his knee and it helps him to take the cigarette out of his mouth. He’s in combat gear, the cigarette is between his lips again, and there’s a backpack, and a gun, between the space of his legs.

Steve can’t stop staring. Bucky’s hair is still long, just like Steve had a glimpse at in Serbia. Though there isn’t that scared look in Bucky’s eyes, it’s just wholeheartedly filled with a comfortable essence and a content aura. A mask, the muzzle, is on Bucky’s lap, along with the magazine, Marlboros and a lighter.

“Did you enjoy Nesebar?” Bucky asks, and then takes a long, calculated drag, with his cheeks hollowing and eyes squinting. There's a bunch of elastics on his wrist, presumably for his hair. He’s looking right at Steve, like he can’t look away either. Bellowing out smoke, he adds, “Saint Sofia, how was it?” His face is shining with the moon.

Steve can’t help but laugh. He shakes his head, hand involuntarily gesturing to Bucky. His arm makes its way down to Bucky’s exposed ankle like he might wrap a hand around it, but he pulls away before he can let himself believe that Bucky isn’t really there. He grips his hand into a fist, rubbing at his eyes as he does.

Bucky nudges his thigh. “I hope you tanned,” he quotes, winking.

He grabs Bucky’s ankle, feeling the jut of the bone and the soft skin. He squeezes the flesh, taps along it like Bucky’s an instrument. His gaze filters to Bucky’s lips, which are stretched against the small cylinder of the cigarette, but are still lopsided into an insane, boyish grin.

“You weren’t there,” Steve says softly, “So…”

“You still would’ve hit a dead end if I was,” Bucky counters, flicking the ash down.

Steve follows the flecks. They land right where Steve had been standing, talking on the phone to Sam, and even if he had no sense of smell, he would’ve noticed the pitter patter, the small sounds of inhales that Bucky takes. He frowns, looks back at Bucky, and smiles again. “Where have you been?”

“Serbia, which you know,” Bucky snorts, nose scrunching up how it would when he was 12-years-old and faced with another serving of boiled cabbage, “Slovakia, Fiji. Brooklyn, for the past few days.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. The alleyways just appealed to me. I swear, I was more drawn to them than you fucking were.”

“You remember.”

Bucky then has an appalling expression, like he’d jump if Steve weren’t there, purposely angle his knees in a way they would snap when he lands. His shoulders strain, hunching forward. He tilts his head down and Steve can’t see his eyes, but he can see his eyelashes. Bucky blinks. “A lot. Too much, really,” he coughs wetly, “I’ll be gone a while, just so you know. I want you to know.”

Steve doesn’t squeeze Bucky’s ankle. He eases up on his hold, but just leaves his hand there. Bucky’s pants feel rough, even just at the hem, all Kevlar and leather. He smoothes his hand up Bucky’s shin, pushing up the fabric. Bucky’s smiling at him now, this little thing with the corner of his lips, and Steve just wants to lean a little closer, just to convince him.

“You’re leaving?” He questions, even though he knows the answer. He shuffles a little closer. Bucky eyes the shift of his movement, eyebrows quirked.

“Yup.”

“Why?” It’s foolish, Steve knows, to press.

“Do you expect me to stay here?” Bucky asks, laced with a scoff that probably catches at his throat, the way he gulps. His eyes are still dazzled, the only things that are bright, other than the moon and the dozens of stars that are visible over the city lights.

Steve thinks for a moment. There’s nothing for Bucky here, even though Steve’s pictured him here, metal arm and amnesic mind and all. “I could,” he contemplates. How can he try? What can he do? What can he offer that Bucky wouldn’t think twice about taking? “It could happen. You could—“

“Join your team? I don’t think so, honey.” Under the context, Steve flutters.

“All right, just stay. You don’t have to do that anymore, if that’s what you want. You could—“

“For fuck’s sake,” Bucky snaps, but his mouth is moving faster than the softer emotion in his eyes, “I’m a wanted man. So what, right? I could just stay here with you, wait until Stark or Coulson or some dumb shit from the government shows up, threatens you, puts me in cuffs. I won’t pretend that I’ll end up in a black site, shit where in Poland. A capsule in the deepest ocean, where Iron Man will make monthly trips to give me more oxygen, what a fucking life. Oh, that shit would be pure, bad for lungs, and it’ll fuck me up more, and when I come back, that toxic shit would’ve given me so many seizures that I probably wouldn’t have a tongue. I wouldn’t be able to tell you how much I,” he halts, holds up the cigarette to his mouth, but then trembles, “I don’t know what to do without seeing your face, God. Stevie. I don’t. Shut up for a minute.”

Steve closes his mouth. He blinks the welling of tears in his eyes away and then wordlessly grabs Bucky’s cigarette, and takes a meaningful drag. There’s nothing for him to say. He doesn’t want to say anything. Bucky doesn’t want him to say anything. All he wants to do is fit himself between Bucky’s legs, head on his lap, and sprawl his legs out and sleep, under the moon with his best friend.

“Shush,” Bucky retorts, “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here. I just, I just wanted a smoke,” he sounds glum, “It’s not safe here. I’m fucking off to Tasmania. I came here to tell you that.”

“Tasmania?” Steve coughs, passing back the cigarette. Bucky’s fingers brush against his, but then they’re holding hands, the discarded cigarette falling onto the ground with a whimsical twirl.

“A shit hole,” Bucky admits, leaning forward and pulling Steve closer, so he’s fit in between Bucky’s legs, which are both bent now, “No one will find--no one will find either of us, I suppose.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to—“

“You know what, I don’t want Captain America, Cap, Capsicle, whatever the fuck you’re being called. I don’t want the you that’s _here_. I want the kid that went on a rampage in ’36 when he got better, after weeks of bed rest, and then ended up with a fucked nose and got his best guys favourite shirt all bloody. I want to go home.”

Steve thinks about Wanda. If Pietro were to show up with a beating heart and a charming grin, would she go wherever he wanted? Or would she compromise, make him stay with her? He bites at his bottom lip and he’s staring right at Bucky, whose eyes are following the movement. “I…”

Their mouths press against one another. Steve grips at Bucky’s biceps, both are them are warm and muscular. He didn’t notice before, but the metal arm is shaped just like Bucky’s right arm. Steve opens his mouth, just begging for the filth, and Bucky indulges, tongue sweeping across the ridge of Steve’s teeth.

He shivers, “I,” he says softly, pressing a kiss against the corner of Bucky’s slack, open mouth. The hand around the back of his neck is flesh and bone, blood and tissues. “I don’t know who I am without the shield.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky hisses, pulling Steve up so that he’s resting on his knees. Bucky presses his mouth on the side of Steve’s neck, peppering soft, gentle kisses there. One under Steve’s jaw, he mumbles, “You’re too scared to step in front of it,” he sucks onto the crease between Steve’s neck, ear and jaw, “I’m scared too. But, I have to try to be fucking selfish for once. I haven't been selfish in over 70 years.”

"I have," Steve breathes out, "whenever it's you, I'm selfish."

"Sugar, we're two peas in a pod."

“Tasmania?”

“Tasmania.” Bucky’s looking up at him with wide eyes, the sphere of the moon fitting in them.

“Don’t they have tigers there?”

“They’re dogs, actually. They’re extinct.”

Steve nuzzles his face into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder, stretching out his legs so they’re comfortably lying out. Bucky smells like gunpowder and sweat. Both of them have the stench of smoke on them. He heaves a shattering breath. “Like we’re going to be.”

“Who would I be to make Captain America extinct? That fucker’s great, but Steve Rogers is… you’re indescribable. I need you, just for a little while. Cap just has to piss off for a little while. Captain America is War, but you, Stevie, you’re the apples that we nicked from Mrs. O’Donnell. You’re those stinking hot nights that I smoked out the window, you’re those little coughs that could mean death and you’re me on my knees, my head on your thigh and your hands in my hair.”

Bucky’s voice is soft in his ear. He talks about the apples again and that could’ve been the only thing he could remember, and Steve would still be this close and undeniably trusting. Steve closes his eyes, grips onto Bucky’s biceps a little tighter. Bucky kisses his forehead, his hair. His lips are soft on Steve's head. He dreams of stained cherries on Bucky’s lush lips.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS FOR READING XXX


End file.
